A Familiar Gleam
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: A series of oneshots based on Diaval and other characters. Raven turned human, Diaval muses at emotion; as he watched Aurora sleep, he wondered if this beautiful young woman would ever understand what the familiar gleam in his eyes truly means. Self-reckoning, fluff, sorrow, and hope. In which Diaval serves with unconditional devotion. Diaval/Aurora. Prompt as you like.
1. A Familiar Gleam

_A Familiar Gleam_

_By Eirian Erisdar_

* * *

Diaval is an enigma.

Once, his world had been divided in a clear-spun line of invisible silk. The horizon cleaved the ground from the endless sky; the sky brought freedom and flight, and the ground brought food. Simple as that. Days and nights were equally ordered; sunlight limned his azure-sable wingtips with gold, and moonlight wrought his feathers with silver. He had no care for clothing or riches, for what were the temptations of men to one born in the glorious raiment of a Raven Prince?

It was perfect, in a strange sort of way. In the manner of one who does not wish for more because he had heard, but did not truly _know_ there could be more.

_Into a man._

He had thought it a minor inconvenience, is all, when Maleficent changed his form into that of a human's with an idle flick of her fingers. To be honest, he was more occupied with a sudden surge of – _gratitude?_ – for her saving his life. That _emotion_ had been a revelation, and brought a torrent of uncertainty with it. He had smiled and bowed and swore servitude with the graceful poise of one used to flight, yes – but he had been unprepared for the emotions that plague the lives of men, for the sudden need to form bonds, for companionship and friendship. It is all too different from the constant rivalry of living in a murder of ravens. Even his natural-born raven's intelligence paled at it. It wasn't predictable. It wasn't _logical_.

Diaval had thrown himself into servitude to his Mistress Maleficent with a determination born of an insatiable need to _understand_. He had always listened well, being a raven; now he is her wings and her ears, and he goes where she commands, never questioning save for an idle jest or two. They had become bickering brother and sister, in a manner of speaking.

And so, by listening to words unspoken as much as voiced, Diaval understands the grief of the self-made queen he serves, and the joy of the child that somehow blossomed into a young woman before he could stop to preen his wing. When they were formally introduced, he had kissed her hand in the manner of a commoner greeting their queen – and in a certain way, it was apt indeed.

In the long years, he had turned each new emotion over in his fingers, until they all resembled smooth river stones worn with experience and warmth. He will never truly be a _raven_ again; even when he is his feathered form, he retains that human longing for companionship.

And now, it is with this knowledge that the man with raven hair knows this moment is one he will forever cherish and regret, the two emotions colouring the very memory of it gold and scarlet.

The sunlight streams in through the diamond-barred window, turning the dust-motes of the air into waltzing couplets of stardust, and alights upon the golden locks of the sleeping young woman. There she rests, her hands clasped over the folds of her dress, framed by the heavy cloth of the unfamiliar, four-posted bed. A sleep like _death _– but Diaval does not think her grey, or withering, or lifeless; she seems to him as though she rests in the soft minutes before awakening. He has never seen anything more beautiful. A sleeping beauty; as Diaval steps out from behind the changing partition, his footsteps uncharacteristically silent on the flagstones, he supposes – he _wishes_ – that any moment now that golden head would rise from the pillow, and her still-warm lips would part in that brilliant smile she had sent his way when she was first introduced to him, and that crystalline laugh would fall through the air like cleansing rain to the cry of _"Pretty bird!"_

But she is still, unmoving.

And Diaval _wonders_. That airheaded boy-prince's kiss had clearly been useless, and it is hardly a surprise; he does not think the two of them have exchanged more than ten words alltogether. Of all the emotions Diaval had experienced and catalogued in his human days, the hardest of all to understand is _love._ Is his desire to see Aurora laugh all the days of her life an extension of this? Something new seems to be unfolding from the sudden knot lodged in his ribs, born of his understanding for the emotion but wholly unknown. It almost frightens him with its intensity; and fear is not something a raven knows. This is the most human he can ever recall being.

And he supposes…if _he_, himself, were to step to her bedside and kiss her, would not sixteen full years of devotion and servitude _mean_ something? He has long since heard from his eavesdropping on humans that their kind see love as something that has to be _shown_ and not said; and he would truly, truly do anything, anything at all, to save this wonderful girl from a not-life of everlasting sleep.

He pauses, then, between one step and the next, overwhelmed, grasping for courage from whence he knows not. And then–

And then–

The mistress he serves moves from his side to bow her head over the closest thing she has to a daughter, and Diaval stands frozen, watching the liquid trail trickle down Maleficent's deathly pale cheek.

He nearly starts forward, but there is something all too private about the way the long-nailed hand brushes the strands of gold off slumbering forehead; and so he hesitates, and stands there, silent, as Maleficent speaks to her adopted goddaughter.

"I swear no harm will come to you, so long as I shall live." She crouches to kiss Aurora on her forehead.

_And I,_ Diaval adds silently. _And I._ He would forever rest on her windowsill, watching over her where Maleficent cannot, until his feathers turn white with age and the caw from his throat turns to a croak – A lifetime for another, watching the living breath enter and leave her sleeping form. He would never tire of it. It is all he can do without telling her he lo–

He sees it first; Maleficent had turned towards the window to hide her tears, and so missed the beautiful, silent moment when the young woman's eyelids flutter and open wide, revealing irises as glimmering blue as the water-lilies of the Faeries.

Diaval actually takes a half-step towards her before remembering his place. It is all he can do to incline his head and smile at Aurora, the grin crinkling his eyes and the scars at his temples, and rejoice and mourn all at once.

Maleficent's joy is beautiful to behold; it is as though twenty years of shadow falls away from her shoulders. Diaval smiles for her, too, as goddaughter and godmother embrace.

He does not move from his spot, rooted onto the flagstones like a caged bird.

_Cherish and regret._

Later, he would wonder if it was all a dream.

* * *

Diaval smiles as he lounges in the dappled shadow of a flourishing sycamore tree. The grass of the aerie is bright around him. The united realms of Faeries and Men spread out below him in a patchwork of harlequin and emerald, scarlet and crimson, azure and cerulean. He tilts his head back and glances upward at the arching sky above, through the veined curtain of rustling leaves; the sky is cloudless, perfect, inviting.

He could transform at this moment and dart up to the heavens, if he wanted to. Maleficent had bestowed on him two gifts upon laying aside her crown: the ability to change from raven to human form at will, and his freedom from servitude. The first gift he had accepted graciously, the second he had refused. His untraditional friendship with Maleficent defines too much of him. Not that it matters much in the grand scheme of things; there is less to do, now, that peace has come to this part of the world.

Diaval closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the tiny blue blossoms that flourish here, in the variegated shade. The warm afternoon light casts the ridges of his scars in half-shadow. This is part of what he loves about being human; his sense of smell might be a dozen times stronger as a raven, but he cannot appreciate the delicacy of it in that form; his raven-senses label flowers as _not-food_, nothing more.

He senses her before he hears her steps sound through the earth by his ear. When she was crowned new queen over both kingdoms, the forest had recognised her, acknowledged her. So as she paces up the hill without a care in her muddy satin slippers, hidden ripples rush through the grass, and the trees creak as they half-bow as she passes.

Not that she sees this, of course; she might suspect, but no human can see how the forest bows to her as a creature of magic can. As Diaval can.

Tinkling laughter, above him and to his right. "Hello there, pretty bird."

He feigns surprise as he opens his eyes and rises to bend over her hand. "My queen."

Aurora slaps him on the arm. "Don't tease," she says gamely, eyes twinkling as she settles into the shade. He remains standing, leaning against the tree; if her frequent trips out horse-riding with Phillip are anything to tell by, it would be good for Diaval to keep his distance.

For a long while, they watch the breeze run through the joined realms below.

"You've known me for a long while, haven't you, Diaval?" Aurora asks suddenly, with that infernally adorable abruptness she has had since she was a child.

"Does that even need asking?" he answers, wondering where this could possibly lead.

She laughs again. "I suppose you're right. I need some advice, that's all."

"At your service," Diaval replies, mock-seriously.

He keeps his gaze on the view, but he feels her ice-blue gaze searching him as she asks, "How do you know if someone likes you? Much like in the stories, I mean."

Diaval finds himself speechless for a long, long moment; his gaze snaps down towards Aurora, only to find her staring fixedly at the hem of her dress as she picks at a blade of grass with her fingers.

She obviously takes his silence as incomprehension, as she elaborates, "I think Phillip likes me." The words are accompanied by a cherry-red blush that makes her face look as though it were a tomato topped with golden leaves.

_Oh._

For a moment there, it had seemed–

Diaval has not spent so long in the service of a Faerie for nothing; he schools his expression with barely a thought. "Shouldn't you go to Mistress Maleficent about this?" he says quietly.

Aurora squirms slightly. "I think this subject holds pain for her. She didn't say anything, but I can see it."

Diaval barely restrains from breathing a laugh at that. She is observant, indeed – but so blind in another aspect of her life. "Very well, then. Why do you think he is fond of you?" he says, voice sounding odder than he would want. He curses internally. _Keep yourself in control, man…raven…whatever I am–_

Aurora looks up at him, earnest. "Well, he smiles at me all the time, gives me gifts without occasion, and seeks out my company day after day – and he speaks more sweetly to me than to anyone else."

"Don't I do that?" Diaval murmurs, hoping he sounds as humourous as he intends.

She reaches up to flick him on the elbow, the highest part of him she can reach from where she sits by his feet. "Well, yes, but you're _supposed_ to! You're one of my closest friends!" she says indignantly. "I _know_ you – you know I can recognise you in any form simply by the gleam in your eyes. It's _familiar_."

"Hm." Diaval doesn't think he can manage any other response. "I'm glad I'm so predicable, Aurora." _Don't sound bitter, don't sound bitter…_

"That's exactly it," she sighs, dropping the blade of grass. "You're such a _steady_ presence. I turn around and you're always there. But I don't know what to do with Phillip…I can't predict what he'll do next. What…what should I do, now?"

Phillip is not a bad person by any accounts. A tad airheaded, if Diaval's conversations with him are anything for him to judge by – but good-hearted and well-meaning. Simple. _Predictable_.

But not to Aurora, it seems.

Diaval watches the emerald shadows of the sycamore leaves crown her hair with emeralds, and manages to conjure up a smile for her. "Well, that's simple, your ladyship," he answers. "Find out whether _you_ are fond of him."

"Is that really it?" she murmurs, frowning. "That simple?"

"Yes," Diaval says plainly, feeling the rough bark of the tree dig into his back. "If you do love him, then I wish you two all the best. If you do not, then tell him. Gently. Remember, Aurora – you are not obligated to care for him in that manner simply because he does for you." _You're not. You're really not. Not for anyone. _"You may choose to remain friends, if you wish."

There is a horrible moment of silence when he fears he has pushed her too far; but then that brilliant, beautiful, _mesmerising_ grin adorns her face once more, and she jumps up to kiss him on the cheek. He reels internally, so much so that he nearly misses her next words.

"Thank you so much, pretty bird. I _knew_ you would know what to do!" And with those parting sentiments, she darts off down the hill, flinging a final laughing "I'll see you at dinner with godmother, birdie!" over her shoulder as she dances through the grass, fading into the forest like the fleeting warmth of Spring.

He watches her go.

A while later, Diaval moves over to where a pool of dew had collected into a large leaf beneath the tree, and studies his reflection. The warm spot on his cheek appears unchanged; scars still ridge his jawline.

It occurs to him he has kissed her hand before, and she now has kissed his cheek. It seems a form of exquisite irony that they have kissed each other and yet _not._

He moves out of the shade of the tree to the spot of sunlight before the drop-off of the cliff. A sudden gust of wind has the tree weeping sycamore seeds; they spin on their twin wings, each carrying new life, delicately balanced on two points as they waltz to the hidden melody of the breeze.

Some seeds fall among the blue flowers – the tiny blossoms of forget-me-nots, swaying in the whispering grass. Some are carried over the skirling edge of Diaval's long black coat and drop off the edge of the cliff in a breathless fall, carried on the currents of air until perhaps they would alight in the castle garden, far away, and grow into a new tree there.

Diaval remembers that dusk in the castle, when he had hesitated before Aurora's sleeping form. If she were still here, perhaps she would have noticed that the gleam in his eyes is not wholly dry; but the next moment, he has transformed again, and the wind rises under his wings and brings him closer to the sun.

She thinks she understands him wholly and truly, and is grateful for his steady presence; but she does not understand _why_ he chooses to be there. It should be enough to make any man weep; Diaval does not. He is not wholly human, and he is glad for it. He is stronger.

Perhaps she would never look at him and see the gleam in his eyes for what it truly is, the words hidden behind each mock-elaborate bow he makes; but she smiles, and laughs, and is happy, and that will content him.

_No_ – he is not content. He will never be content. But as Diaval rises on an invisible thermal and scouts the road ahead of the laughing young woman who darts through the hidden paths of the forest, he knows that no harm will come to her – not even if she chooses that boy – for as long as Diaval shall live, her steps will never stray into shadow.

He is not truly content, yes. But for the moment, it is enough – enough to know her and to laugh with her, and to spend his days keeping her from harm.

Diaval stretches his glossy wings and dances through the air.

* * *

**EDIT: Due to popular demand, this will now be a series of stories based primarily on Diaval and Aurora, but will also feature Maleficent, Phillip, and other characters. Yes. This means there will be more. :)**

**So much wasted potential. Disney and their need to adhere to tradition, ugh. Phillip was the singularly most useless side character ever to appear in any of their movies. I hope I presented Diaval's character well enough here; I would be very grateful for any suggestions and comments you may have. Thank you for reading.**


	2. A Game of Riddles - Part 1

_A Game of Riddles – Part 1_

* * *

Sunlight glimmers on the parapets of the castle, glancing over the turreted towers to cascade, laughing, onto the sleek slate below, edging Diaval's steps with warmth as he paces along the edge of a small garden.

As his path turns under a trellis wound with honeysuckle, Diaval reflects that this is a welcome change; too long had this place been a fortress against one man's immaterial fears. For sixteen years the maddened king had barricaded the world from sight, cleaved the dusty corridors from light, until the shadows of his mind grew and clawed their way out of him, darkening the very air within into a miasma of rotting breath. It had almost been enough to cause Diaval to gag on each occasion he had slipped into the castle to observe its inhabitants during King Stephan's reign. And that was in raven form, as well; he grimaces to think what the stench would have been like for a human's more refined palate.

Diaval had been told this particular garden was once a favourite of the Queen; it had fallen into disrepair after the birth of her daughter, seeming to wither away with the same torturously slow illness that took the Queen from life.

Naturally, Maleficent had only needed to take one step onto the castle grounds to breathe life into the gardens again, to pave the lifeless surface with a carpet of harlequin grass. Diaval had circled high above the citadel, watching as starbursts of fragrant blossoms danced into being, and as the old crooked ash tree hidden in a corner straightened nobly to bow at his new queen. Aurora had reached out to grasp the ash's long-twigged fingers, her face a picture of delight and her voice a finch's melodious trill of laughter–

Diaval pulls himself out of his memories as he registers that he is passing by a little wrought-iron table set under that same ash tree, and the person sitting there has called his name.

"Lord Diaval!" Prince Phillip repeats, rising to bow in greeting. His young face is all too oblivious to the Diaval's twitch at the very _human_ title.

Pausing in the cool shade under the gently swaying boughs, Diaval makes the boy – _man? _–a bow in return, adding just a hint of a flourish. Even after all this time, it is hard to judge human ages. This one, he muses, could probably be called a man, if he were to show a trifle more _cunning_.

The thought makes him smirk inwardly.

_Ah. But no more musing._ Prince Phillip is expecting an answer.

"I am no lord, your highness," Diaval answers dryly. "We have no distinction between nobility and commoners in the Moors. All faeries are born equal – and I was born a raven. Having a name is more than enough."

The prince smiles in acceptance. "Oh, of course! 'Diaval' it is." He seems to consider something. "Well, since you prefer that I address you by your name only, I suppose it is only right that from now on, you call me Phillip."

"Whatever you prefer," Diaval answers, just as mischief strikes him. "Then you wouldn't mind if I called you Phil?" he chuckles.

Phillip's perfectly schooled diplomatic expression falters ever so slightly, before snapping back into a small smile. "If you prefer to do so."

This reply is enough to cause a little spike of guilt to rise in Diaval's chest; though said guilt is mixed with an ample amount of amusement, as well. The boy-prince is so utterly, innocently _courteous._ It's not that Diaval _isn't_ cordial with others, per se, but he has learned enough human mannerisms to know how to refuse something in a manner that would not insult the other party. Phillip is clearly uncomfortable with the shortened version of his name; perhaps it is too familiar for someone as used to the pomp and circumstance of court as he is. And yet, he has accepted it anyway, out of simple kindness of heart.

It would appear the situation needs remedy. Diaval gives minute sigh before plastering a grin on his face. "I meant that wholly in jest, Phillip."

"Oh! Oh, right." Phillip's smile makes its entirely unsubtle return. Diaval muses that this smile is not like Aurora's; Aurora smiles as though joy were brimming out of her in uncontrollable waves, but Phillip smiles with simple contentment, like a child brought up in such a sheltered, peaceful place that he knows no sorrow or regret.

_Which,_ Diaval supposes, _is probably an exact description of his childhood._

"Wouldn't you like to sit?"

Diaval snaps back to the present moment, berating himself. He _really_ should stop himself from slipping into memories of Aurora. It would appear that every time he does, he loses his usual sharp-eyed observation of his surroundings. A quick glance reveals Phillip gesturing him towards the other wrought-iron chair, set at the opposite side of the small circular table.

_Well, this is a surprise._ Diaval raises an eyebrow. It would appear the prince would like to participate in…what is the term? _Small talk._ A most curious pastime; the folk of the Moors simply clasp hands in greeting and get to the meat of the conversation. Diaval reflects that even Aurora is slightly faerie-like in that respect; she has a certain way of announcing her presence with a peal of laughter and launching into a dozen curious questions at once.

Unknowing of what the invitation has inspired, Phillip waits for the raven-haired man to sit on the other side of the small circular table before speaking. "I must say, it is a pleasure to see you here. I thought you would be at the Moors, with the Lady Maleficent."

"Mistress Maleficent has charged me with accompanying the queen, wherever her duties might lead her," Diaval returns, deciding not to mention that Maleficent would certainly not appreciate being called a _Lady_. "I flew ahead to scout. Aurora should be here soon."

"Yes," Phillip enthuses, unexpected warmth in his voice. "I'm waiting for her here. We promised each other we would have a game of riddles."

Diaval has to physically quell the rush of aching pain that wells up from somewhere in his stomach, stilling his tongue. It is well that this is not his original form; a raven's face is a black-feathered mask, with the gleam of dark eyes the only window to emotion. In a certain way, Diaval has always lived in a masquerade; so it is without much effort that he wipes his features as blank as the unchangeable façade of a raven.

A game of _riddles_.

_Of all the possible things…_

It would have been a perfectly normal pursuit, were riddles not a favourite pastime between himself and Aurora. So many afternoons sat by one of the misty ponds in the Moors, on the windblown heights by their sycamore tree, in the calm of a forest glade – throwing one witty exchange at another, often degenerating into truly terrible puns that would make even the silently watching Maleficent smile ever so slightly.

For her to share this with another man…

Diaval turns towards Phillip again, to find the prince thoroughly absorbed in instructing a passing manservant to bring refreshments to the garden for when Aurora should arrive. Sunlight glitters on one of the prince's sleeves as he gestures; every inch of his clothing is covered in intricate embroidery and strips of silk and velvet and organdy, wrought in triple layers to his royal house's crest of arms, sewn invisibly onto the left of his sky-blue tunic. It must be a terrible bother to move in; the thickness of the cloth alone would impair movement.

Even _looking_ at Phillip's choice of wear makes Diaval wince. He cannot even begin to imagine wearing anything similar – the weight of the fabric alone would cause him to feel trapped, unable to transform at will…

The raven glances down at his own raiment. If the prince's clothing is a summer sky, Diaval's can only be described as a moonless night. The supple, sable length of his long coat pools around his worn boots, its ragged edge nearly indistinguishable from his noonday shadow. Blue-black feathers line the high collar that frames the scars running down his pale collarbones; but really, all his clothes are like a second skin to him, as though they are gossamer wings that could lift him up into the sky at spoken command – which, he supposes, they are.

It occurs to him that even in this form, he cannot be recognised as anything other than what he is – a raven. _Phillip,_ though, in his pastel shades of cerulean and white and emerald…he would not be a raven. He would be–

–a _peacock_.

The image is so gloriously fitting, and so utterly satisfying, that Diaval actually snorts out loud before he can rein in his reaction.

"Are you quite all right, Diaval?"

The prince actually sounds somewhat concerned; Diaval valiantly attempts to stop his the corner of his lips from twitching. "Pollen," he explains, deadpan. _Don't laugh, don't laugh…_

But his natural-born propensity for mischief gets the better of him.

_Phillip the Peacock. The Peacock Prince. Come one, come all! See Phil the Peacock Prince! All fluff and no brain!_

It is extremely fortunate that Phillip chooses that moment to idly fix the buckle of his sword-belt, or he would have seen a very peculiar expression pass over the face of the raven-turned-human sitting opposite. As such, when Phillip raises his head again, Diaval's face holds nothing stranger than his usual, gently knowing grin.

"Diaval."

The prince's suddenly serious tone immediately captures the attention of the other man. "Yes?" Diaval ventures, tilting his head. Now _this_ is an unexpected turn.

Phillip seems altogether uncomfortable, half-murmuring his next words. "Well, do you…that is…do you think I would be a good king?" he blurts. The shade of the gently swaying ash tree hardly covers the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry?" Diaval returns, slightly incredulous.

"Well," Phillip continues, his words rushing together as he stumbles over them, "There's been…talk…that I'm not a good choice for my father's throne. That I'm not of the stock rulers should be made of. I'm on a diplomatic mission here, so it would be inappropriate for me to ask Aurora, let alone one of the court advisors…"

"So you chose to ask a _raven?"_ Oh no, no_ – _Diaval isn't just slightly incredulous now – he might be hovering on the precipice of utter disbelief.

But the prince opposite him seems perfectly serious. "Yes. Aurora tells me you're her closest confidant, almost, save for the Lady Maleficent, and she's…well…"

"Intimidating?"

"Yes." Phillip's relief is all too evident. "So…what do you think of me? As a person, I mean."

Well, _there's_ a question. Diaval mulls over the various responses he could give, and decides _"I really shouldn't answer that, because I spent the better part of a day hauling you about by your collar like you were a festival balloon of some sort, and so my opinion would be rather unflattering"_ wouldn't be quite…right.

"Do you want my honest answer?" he sighs.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"You mean well. Most of the time."

"I…mean well?" Phillip's confusion forms a frown on his young features.

"You would never intend to hurt any around you. That is something to be respected."

"Oh." Then: "Would you mind if I asked another question?"

"Not at all." The pain in Diaval's chest is still there, like a thorn in his heart he cannot pull out. The prince's innocent conversation is certainly not helping; as Diaval sees it, there is nothing about Phillip that merits hating _at all_. And that makes it somehow more…difficult, that Aurora allows this boy to court her.

"As you may have noticed," Phillip says slowly, "I've been courting Aurora. And I would like to know…I would like to know if you feel for her, too."

_Wait. What?_

Surprise actually numbs the ache within him for a moment, but it is only a temporary respite. When he is sufficiently recovered, Diaval returns Phillip's slightly worried gaze with a harsh, bird-like stare. "Has it ever crossed your mind that you perhaps should have asked me this _before_ beginning to court her yourself?" The usual musical lilt of his accented voice grows rougher, like a mockingbird's call morphing into the grating caw of a raven.

Phillip, apparently, has the grace to look abashed.

Diaval has not spent near twenty years at Maleficent's side for nothing; he lets the silence hold for a long, long minute, freezing the air between them, lining the curved iron table between them with ice, before finally speaking.

"It doesn't matter whether I feel for her or not," he says slowly. The thorn in his heart is twisting again, further, deeper. He ignores it; he is not a nightingale. He is a _raven._ "This is not some _competition_ to be won. Aurora will marry whomever she chooses."

Phillip frowns. "But–"

"I know you respect her, Phillip," Diaval continues. "You hesitated in kissing her on that day, after all – and don't bother asking me how I know."

The prince appears to choke on the hasty words before changing tack. "But you never did answer my question," he insists. "Are you courting her?"

A penetrating stare, with eyes as black as ink. "Does it matter?"

"I…" Phillip flounders.

Diaval ignores the burning in his heart and opens his mouth. "Don't fret," he sighs, allowing his voice to fall back to his usual low musical tones again. "If Aurora _does_ choose you, then I wish you both well." Phillip relaxes at these words, but jerks back fearfully, when the raven speaks again, in an entirely different tone. "But," Diaval murmurs conversationally, _kindly, _"Should I see you _lose_ that respect you had for her…"

"Then what?" From the prince's tone, he seems to want to laugh whatever this is off.

Diaval shrugs, glancing up as a stray cloud covers the sun, darkening the garden in the sudden chill. "Quoth the raven," he says simply.

"_Nevermore?"_ Phillip's voice comes out in nearly a squeak.

"Quoth the raven: what a bore," Diaval says humouredly, rising and clapping a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "In all seriousness, Phillip – I could do with a good game of riddles. But I shall leave you and Aurora be. I'll take my leave of you now."

With that, he turns to meander through the scattered flowerbeds, stooping to trace the edge of a blood-lily before crouching on the spot in preparation to change into his raven form–

–and perhaps he would have took flight, had a young queen not bounded out of the entryway to tackle him with a hug. Diaval embraces her lightly in return before pushing her gently to a more discreet distance.

"Pretty bird! I knew you would have arrived first! How long have you been waiting?" Aurora cries delightedly, as Diaval, per his custom, bows and raises her hand to his lips. He nearly forgets to let go of her hand.

"Not long." Diaval knows he may be speaking less than he should, but he does not trust himself with lengthy words. Not at the moment. His heart must surely be bleeding, dripping down his coat to stain the perfect harlequin of the grass by his feet–

He catches himself, and alights upon a solution. "I was just speaking with Phillip, actually. You were planning on a game of riddles?" He had not meant his voice to catch; and it doesn't, not really, but Aurora still glances at him strangely.

Happily, Phillip trots over right at that moment and presents a welcome distraction as he greets Aurora. Diaval is pleased to see the prince does not kiss her hand, but simply bows.

"Riddles, yes," Aurora says, turning to her friend again. "Oh!" a smile blossoms on her face, like sunrise on the horizon. "You have to join us!"

"I would really rather–"

Then Aurora gives him _that look,_ the one that causes even Maleficent to soften at the corners…and Diaval finds himself saying, "If the prince would not object…"

She turns. "Phillip?"

Diaval is somewhat gratified to see someone else suffer under that earnest look. Aurora's wide blue eyes have the same affect on the prince, apparently, for a moment later, she is crowing victory and dragging both men by their sleeves over to the table, where a manservant is laying out a series of sweetmeats and cold pitchers.

A three-way game of riddles, it is then. Diaval does not know whether to be happy or worried.

* * *

**As you probably can tell, this is going to be a two-shot; riddles galore next chapter, with raven, prince, and queen pitting their wits against each other. I referenced a famous short story here; congratulations to those who saw it. **** Reviews are gold; I always make an effort reply to everyone who reviews. Thank you to all the wonderful people who reviewed the last chapter. I hope you liked this.**

**Replies to guest reviews:**

**Guest 1:**** Thank you very much for reviewing! **

**Guest 2:**** Have I used the prince well? XD Those ideas of yours might happen sometime; still, it might be a while. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Elizabeth:**** As much mischief as that plan would need, Diaval is too upright a person to do such a thing, I think. You almost wrote a story in that review! **** Go write it yourself, if you wish! You sound as though you have many ideas. Thanks!**

**Blossom:**** Thanks for reviewing!**


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